Welcome! We are setting up the wedding
reception tables now. First course will be red peppers rolled up with
regrets in a lovely spinach tortilla. Then we’ll serve a classic turkey
dinner, sure to put any ex-husbands in attendance to sleep before they can
make a scene. The wedding cake is a take on the traditional Australian
pavlova, rumored to be a favorite of the groom’s wayward brother. Take a
seat, relax, and good luck trying to get the garter—Lulu’s suitors will
fight you for it.

That’s right, Sonny Corinthos, crime lord of
the decade, in the midst of giving orders to his new top secret police
snitch, just yells, “come in!” when someone knocks on the door. I guess
that’s why he has Jason do his thinking for him. Lucky for Sonny, it was
not Mac or Cruz coming by to ask some questions but Max. Perhaps he and
Sonny have worked out a super secret knocking sequence so Sonny knew who was
at the door?

I love, love how disgusted Cooper is with
crime in general. Of course, he participated in an armed robbery—oops, I’m
sorry, “the Hostage Crisis”—but I believe that Coop’s naive enough to have
actually thought no one would get hurt. If this storyline ends in Cooper
choosing to turn himself in rather than protect Sonny a few months down the
road, I think I might swoon. And then start working with Maxie on an escape
plan. Perhaps we can ask Michael Scofield from Prison Break for some tips?
I’ll take any excuse to meet that hunk of man.

Back to Port Charles, Spinellisms
are starting to wear out their welcome but the boy definitely gets a pass
for coining the term secret pain to describe Jason’s state of mind.
And Spinelli’s so genuinely sweet! He barely knows Carly but gave his best
darn Jason impression to help her out, dripping hair gel and all! Seriously
though, someone needs to hide Jason’s hair gel. I can hardly believe how
hot I found him without it last sweeps. I had given up thinking Steve
Burton was sexy around the era known as Cottage Hell, but that glimpse of
gel-free hair was luscious. I’d forgive him his various crimes and hidden
box of lost children if only he’d stop rolling his head around in a vat of
bacon fat each morning. Is that too much to ask?

Anybody else see the floating
point of light on Emily’s forehead while she was in Nikolas’ sitting room?
Perhaps it was her personal Tinkerbell whispering, “Don’t believe him, Em!
He didn’t look you in the eyes about twenty times while claiming his love
for Robin—that means he’s a bad liar!” You know you live in a soap opera
when you can’t believe that your boyfriend has found a new paramour but
don’t even flinch when he claims he’s infected with an unknown poison and is
dependent on a psychopath for his daily dose of antibody. Because, you
know, that second part is so much more likely to happen.

The new Amelia is really bad. She
can barely flub her way through her lines much less, you know, act. Plus,
she looks about 22, which might be a great age for a producer of YouTube
mvids but not for a national network. She’s probably got a desktop with
pictures of her father and Sam floating around to“One Way or Another, I’m
Gonna Get You” by Blondie. Think that’ll give her away?

Further proof that Luke and Tracy
are a match made in heaven—they can drink each other under the table. Both
probably have the alcohol tolerance of an elephant. Or Courtney Love.

Next week, we’ll be offering a raw
oyster bar. They’re slimy going down but you never know when the rough
exterior might be hiding a pearl inside, right Mr. Craig?